


Some Days

by onceuponamoon



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where there's a big comfy chair and Gerard takes care of Mikey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days

**Author's Note:**

> I asked [BadBottle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BadBottle) for a prompt yesterday because I needed a distraction for reasons, SO she sent back "giant comfortable chair" and voila. She also beta'd this little thing. Sorry if you were expecting something warm and fuzzy.

Gerard knows all about how some days are worse than others. He knows all about how some days it’s easy to get out of bed and pretend that the world is his to conquer and social obligations can be upheld like life is no big deal. He also knows how some days it’s even hard to just breathe, seemingly impossible to get out of bed, and talking to anyone is an absolute no-go. It’s all familiar. 

“C’mon, Mikes,” Gerard encourages, “Up ya go.” His hand is a gentle yet firm weight on Mikey’s shoulder, trying not to suffocate him with kindness while at the same time attempting to get his brother up and around. The grumbles from the pile of blankets contain maybe a sincere “Fuck off” or some variation thereof that Gerard knows better than to take to heart.

When he tries for peeling the covers back, Mikey makes a broken, horrified noise to which Gerard can only choke out a soft, “I know…” 

Attempt number two has the covers down to Mikey’s shoulders, his face screwed up against the harsh afternoon light filtering in through the blinds. The third and final try, Gerard finally gets Mikey upright, face devoid of expression in the way that makes Gerard falter a bit – it’s not that Mikey feels nothing, but it’s how he feels _everything_ and can’t parse through it all to organize his features into correspondence. Gerard knows that this is what that is. This is one of those days. He chokes back a noise, sympathetic, but helps his baby brother up and to the living room nonetheless.

“I can’t,” Mikey rasps after his foot has caught on the carpet for the third time. His blank gaze rises up from the floor to his brother’s face, sunken and gaunt in a way that will never leave Gerard. “I want to – but I, I can’t.” 

When he’d noticed Mikey hadn’t gotten up at his usual time, fumbling around the kitchen cupboards for Italian roast, Gerard had immediately known. He’d dragged it from the sun into the space between the couch and the mismatched loveseat, surrounded it with comics and an iPod doc and draped Mikey’s favorite crocheted afghan across its back. It was an old, high-backed thing: wood framed and embellished, and massively cushioned in a terrible off-gold color, curled around the arms and velvety against the back, like a pseudo-antique. Mikey had picked it out at a garage sale, saying, “ _It’s got something, ya know?_ ” to which Gerard had immediately called Toro to get a hand packing it up and getting it home.

Gerard says, “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” and he means every word. Keeping a hand curled around Mikey’s arm, Gerard ushers him into the armchair, listening for a contented sigh that comes after Mikey’s suitably sunken in.

Hours later, after the bypassed time for cancelled plans and after potato soup and charcoal sketches and favorite playlists looped and looped and looped again, Mikey nudges Gerard’s arm with his socked toes and says, “Thanks.”


End file.
